


A Thousand Paths

by Poeticality



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Gap Filler, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-07 21:24:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18881548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poeticality/pseuds/Poeticality
Summary: Brian considers the choices ahead of him: gap filler for 407-408.





	A Thousand Paths

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to TrueIllusion for the prompt!

The waiting room was small, uncomfortable, and far too stuffy for my liking. I’d arrived much earlier than necessary, which I wasn’t sure was entirely a good thing, as it allowed my mind the chance to wonder. Strangely, being told you have cancer kickstarts the brain into rethinking everything you know about life. About the ones you love. About how things could be. 

I shouldn’t have yelled at Justin. I knew I shouldn’t have. It wasn’t Justin’s fault that I was in this shitty god forsaken position, and it wasn’t his fault that there was no way I could be absolutely sure this would end well… but I really should not have yelled at him. Thank fuck he knows well enough to back down. He hadn’t left, the way I’d expected him, just backed down and promised to see me … after. I knew that he could tell something was up, but I didn’t have the heart to tell him what, and he didn’t press me. 

_Justin, don’t freak out, but I have cancer. They think they’ve caught it early but I guess we’ll find out_. Yeah. That would really go down well. My little live in service announcement would be on the internet the next day, panicking in all the ways he couldn’t afford to, and I didn’t want to be the reason he had an anxiety attack or worse. We didn’t talk about the lingering side effects of what that asshole Chris had done to him. Whenever I’d tried, which admittedly wasn’t often, Justin got this look on his face, so I closed up the conversation pretty damn quickly… but we both knew. I’d seen him have those attacks often enough to know, and I wasn’t going to be responsible for another one. 

I could get through this alone, and he would never have to know anything about it. 

A petit blonde lady cleared her throat and I looked up, recognising the blue hospital gear she wore. My stomach curled unpleasantly, and for just a second, I thought about texting him… but what would I even say? Anything that was going through my mind would tip him off that something wasn’t quite right, and I didn’t want to be responsible for a meltdown, especially when I wasn’t there to weather it. I pursed my lips and pushed back the urge, standing up and nodding at the oncologist. “We’re ready for you, Mr Kinney,” a soft smile flittered across her lips as she ushered me toward the operation room.

I pulled out my phone, hesitating. She turned to face me, frowning a little. “No phones in the operating room, Mr Kinney.” Right. I nodded at her, turned my phone off, and took a breath before following the woman into the brightly lit operation room.

I wasn’t sure how long I had been in the recovery room when I eventually woke, but everything felt heavy, the world was spinning, and all I wanted, I realised with a sickening lurch, was _him_. Which was ridiculous because he wasn’t here… because I’d made sure he didn’t know. But then I guess there’s the irony right there. Even worse is the fact that I know that if I had asked, if I’d so much as mentioned it, he’d be the first one by my side, the last one to leave, without me even having to ask.

The thing about Justin Taylor is that somehow, he reads me. Words are a formality with us, something we use around others, but between ourselves, its unneeded mess. We can go for hours without saying a word to each other and be completely fine. I guess that means we’re meant for each other. 

I spent several days in and out of consciousness, little pockets of time coming back to me here and there, but otherwise the whole thing passed in a blur. At times I was thankful for the silence, other times I craved noise - any kind of noise, really, but especially Justin’s kind, the kind of noise someone makes when they don’t make any noise. In that hospital room, even with the murmur of voices around me, I’d never felt more alone in my life.

I wondered if that was how _he_ had felt, after… after the bashing. When I’d only had the courage to come at nighttime, when he was already asleep, exhausted from the stresses of the day. I’d never told him, even now, that I’d been there, I couldn’t… I guess there were still quite a few things that I was unwilling to discuss. I wasn’t some superhero, like Rage, and I’d failed him right where it mattered most… but that didn’t mean I couldn’t be there now for him, which, I was realising, was something that didn’t terrify me quite as much as it once had done.

Huh. Maybe I really was growing up.

Six days after I was finally released from hospital but told to stay close _just in case_ , I brought a ring. I don’t really know what I was thinking, truth be told. One minute I was passing a shop with antique wedding rings, and the next I’d walked in and brought one. A simple white gold thing with a band of diamonds running through the middle. Understated, classy. Justin's initials on the inside. My head was pounding and my lower back was killing me, but that night I drove back to Pitts, ignoring the warning from the doctors, just eager to be home. 

Justin had said he would be there, waiting, but… would he? I knew I shouldn’t care so much, but I did. The ring was a comforting weight in my jacket pocket, a promise unmade, a whispered future yet to be sung.

Could I? Would I?

It wasn’t until I saw him the next day in the Diner, impossibly young but still wiser than his years, no blame, no accusation, no explanation demanded for where I’d been or why I hadn’t called, even though I babbled excuses at him like an idiot. I wasn’t used to this. I was used to Justin throwing tantrums, but it occurred to me that actually, we hadn’t had something like _that_ happen for years. The argument a few weeks ago had been _my_ doing, which said a hell of a lot, didn’t it? 

I drove him to school, despite his protests, just wanting to be near him again, soaking in that Sunshine like a drug. I watched as Justin got out of the car, walking into the Institute of Fine Arts with an exaggerated swagger that just a few years ago I wouldn't have believed he would be capable of, and wondered again whether I could, or would. I guess that was a topic I'd one day have to broach with him… but not yet. I made a promise to myself, then and there. That I’d wait, till the cancer was done with, till the treatment was passed, and then I’d talk to him… then I’d ask him.

Figures that the only promise I’d ever broken would be the one I’d made to myself.


End file.
